Pulled Apart
by Cassandra Lane
Summary: The milk carton was dented and leaking, seeping streams of white across the floor, collecting in a pale pool. It wasn't red or viscous or shiny. It wasn't blood. But it could have been. It could have been Ollie's head cracked open. Big glasses skewed and bright eyes dulling over. Lips parted in shock. Jaw slack. Dead. Where was Oliver?
1. Chapter 1

His eyes flickered around the room. All these people, these stupid dangerous assholes, and none of them cared. How could they be so heartless? Didn't they get it? Oliver was gone. Gone, as in not there. Missing. In danger?

He was blustering, spilling over with anger. All the bullshit excuses. Fuck Frank with his insinuations. Fuck Laurel for dragging Sinclair's name out. Fuck all of them. Maybe they needed to see his apartment to understand. Oliver's phone had been left behind, a relic on their kitchen counter, a small dark spot like a knot of worry. Their fridge was thrown open. The milk carton was dented and leaking, seeping streams of white across the floor, collecting in a pale pool. It wasn't red or viscous or shiny. It wasn't blood. But it could have been. It could have been Ollie's head cracked open. Big glasses skewed and bright eyes dulling over. Lips parted in shock. Jaw slack. Dead. He could see it so clearly in his mind that his pulse spiked at the thought. Adrenaline was washing over him in waves. It was so much. too much. An onslaught of questions flew through his mind, but they all boiled down to one.

Where was Oliver?

Connor's mind was unraveling thread by thread, pulled apart by every passing moment, every new possibility. Black treacly tentacles were encircling him and he could barely breathe. Minutes ticked by. He looked at his hands. His fingers were long and pale and trembling. His room was dark. Annalise had let them call the police. They told a story that was only half true, but it was enough to catalyze a search. Then she had sent him home.

He should've felt some relief but he didn't. He didn't know what to do and the helplessness ate at him. He felt like a scale that was tipping over on one side, overloaded. The police had passed through in a blur. They asked him questions that he answered as truthfully as he could within the context of a greater lie. Yes, Oliver had been in contact with a dangerous man over a gay dating website. Why? They were getting bored in the bedroom and only discovered Phillip's connection the Hapstall case later. The question of "How?" lay thickly around them, but it wasn't pertinent just yet. What else did they know about Phillip? Nothing. Did Oliver indicate to anyone that he was going anywhere or doing anything? No.

Except, earlier he had said, with a dorky grin and raised eyebrows, "Tonight, in the bedroom, I have some things in mind." He had said it in that soft playful voice that he used to sound suave. Connor's cheeks warmed up and his heart swelled. He had walked over and kissed Ollie lightly on the neck. "Who says we have to wait until tonight" he'd whispered and nipped Ollie's ear. He had smiled against the skin of Ollie's cheek and kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth. Then he'd kissed him again just as light but full on. Ollie had kissed him back his with soft slow lips. Oliver had curled a hand in Connor's hair and placed the other on the base of Connor's neck. The moment was oozing with tenderness. A year ago Connor would have called it boring but he was so wrong. It was saccharine and precious and the kind of thing only Ollie could have shown him.

Instead of warming him up like any sweet memory should it chilled him anew. Fear was subtle, it crept into your mind and laid eggs in every crevice. Was that the last kiss they'd ever have? He knew he was being sentimental to a fault and that he should just focus on doing something. He had rubbed his temples and tried to give more helpful answers, but there were no more questions.

The police officer- Dave might've been his name- had jotted things down forcefully on a small yellow pad. He had the expression of a grumpy cartoon bear and he did not inspire confidence in the hearts of anyone. He made a few lackluster assurances to do his best in finding Oliver. Then he stood up, motioned to another police officer who had taken some photos, and left the apartment.

Connor continued to study his hands as he sat, practically paralyzed, trying desperately to think of a viable course of action.

After a significant period of sitting in shock, he forced himself to stand. He grabbed a towel walked over to the kitchen. Leaning down he mopped up the milk. Then he picked up the milk carton, pausing for a few moments and imagining where Ollie's warm hands hand been, and then he chucked it into the trash. He walked around to the other side of the kitchen counter and opened Ollie's laptop. The home screen was a picture of them together; a hastily taken selfie, blurry at the edges but with two genuine smiles. It hurt to look at.

He typed in the password, a ridiculous amalgam of letters and numbers that had taken him forever to memorize. It was one of the things came with dating a computer genius. His internet window was still open to Phillip's 'dude-for-dude' page. There were no new messages since there 'coffee date' arrangement. He clicked on Ollie's history. Nothing. He went back to the dude-for-dude page. Should he message Phillip? What would he say? "Excuse me, but have you kidnapped my boyfriend? Will you please tell me where to find him. I'll do anything, Name your price." That wasn't likely to garner a response. Should he continue the charade and act oblivious? Should he apologize for not showing?

He got up to make a coffee. Hopefully, some caffeine would bring clarity to the situation. He shuffled through the cupboard for a mug, grabbed his favorite, but almost dropped it. His hands were still clumsy with shock. He leaned against the counter, staring down the coffee pot. Once he pulled out the ground coffee, muscle memory got him through the rest.

As he stirred in a packet of sugar the laptop chimed. He set the mug down and rushed over. There was a banner across the top of the screen reading.

 **New Message** : Hey …

He clicked on the notification immediately, his heart pounding.

11:23 **PhilYouUp26** : Hey there. Where were you?

…

11:24 **PhilYouUp26** : Did you get nervous?

Okay, so Connor had to play along. He had to pretend that he didn't suspect this guy of kidnapping Ollie, maybe actually meet him and coax Ollie's location out? Should he call Annalise? She was a bitch, but she usually knew her shit. No, she didn't care about Oliver as much as he did and god knows she always has ulterior motives.

11:26 **Connor** : I'm so sorry. I got really caught up at work and forgot about our plans.

11:27 **Connor** : Do you still wanna meet? You could come over now.

11:32 **PhilYouUp26** : Where do you live?

11:33 **Connor** : App. 303, 1102 West 5th St.

11:35 **PhilYouUp26** : On my way

Fuck. Okay, he really hadn't thought this through. What was he supposed to say? How was he gonna keep it cool? How was this gonna help him find Ollie?

Maybe he should leave his apartment and stake his own building out. After Philip went into the building he check out his car, write down the license plate. Then he could wait and when Philip came back out he could follow him. The more he thought about it the more it seemed like the only logical thing to do.

Connor had driven his car to a convenient corner with a good view of the building's entrance and he had turned off all the lights on his vehicle. He sat, still and silent, and watched with baited breath. He waited.

He kept waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Okay. Clearly, nothing was happening. Other than the occasional wind rustling leaves there was not a sound to be heard. He'd seen one woman jogging almost half an hour ago. Seriously what the fuck was going on. He had brought Ollie's laptop with him just in case he needed to check dude-for-dude, but there were no new messages. He refreshed the page every ten minutes or and still nothing.

Maybe Philip had seen straight through him. Maybe he knew that this would keep him busy and quiet long enough for him to do whatever he wanted to do with Oliver. His breath hitched sharply. He'd never felt like this before. It was a raw panic but muffled by bone-deep anger, but it wasn't the fiery "I wanna throw, punch, scream, kick" kind of anger. It was something cold and hard. It was an "I wanna watch you writhe in pain" blistering anger.

He wanted to calmly squeeze Philip's scrawny little neck. He wanted to watch his lips turn pale blue as he struggled to breath unavailable oxygen. I mean it's not like he hadn't already been an accomplice to murder. Why not commit a homicide himself, you know really up his game?


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver, for the most part, had made very few risky decisions in his life. He had majored in computer science, a topic he excelled in, with phenomenal job security. He had not gambled on making it big in the music world, even though his voice was smooth and strong. He had understood the odds, and he hadn't liked them. He befriended people carefully, constantly conscious of homophobes and racists. He watched the world around him and acted accordingly. He could have easily been described by the words 'slow, deliberate and calm'.

That was until he met Connor Walsh. Then things became infinitely faster and wilder and more frantic. Connor burned so brightly and Oliver was entranced by the flames. He wanted to keep up and be rash and brave and new. He didn't want to be a boring IT boyfriend who never had anything interesting to say. He wanted to be the hacker genius that wheedled his way through firewalls and saved the day with information. He wanted to make up the difference, fill the gap between the person he was and the person he wanted to be for Connor.

This had all been fun, a spectacular new adventure filled with intrigue, until. Well, until right this moment. He was cramped, cold and he couldn't see a damn thing. There was absolutely no light around him, natural or otherwise. His feet were bound together by a thick and itchy rope, that had been tied it around his ankles in such a way that it bit into his skin every time he shifted. His hands were similarly incapacitated but with zip ties. The plastic was ribbed and sharp, pressing into the skin of his wrist. He felt sweat and friction mixing poorly, the perfect recipe for a rash.

He had seen a video once about getting out of zip tie handcuffs, but the girl's hands had been in front of her. His were behind him, sandwiched between his back and the wall. He wriggled his fingers to try and get a feel of something, anything that could clarify where he was. It didn't help.

His mouth was covered with a thick piece of clothing, and it dug into his lower lip. He bit back the urge to scream because it was clear that no one would hear him, wherever he was.

The worst part was the darkness. It covered everything, it crawled over his skin and under his nails. He could feel it biting his cheeks, like a cold wind, but sharper.

He seriously needed to figure out where he was. He began to shift his hips and body weight to try and shuffle along the wall as he continued to feel it with his fingertips. The wall not perfectly smooth, but it wasn't exactly rough. It felt like some sort of drywall. Sometimes his fingers brushed parts that felt crumbly and more jagged. The wall had an unfinished feeling, something you'd probably find in an unused room. So he was probably in an attic, basement or cellar. Or a warehouse. Or a million other possible unfinished rooms.

He reached a corner in his shuffling, but there was some sort of sharp mesh sticking out from it. He felt along it for a bit, it seemed to be a little over a foot high and it went out as far as he could reach. He was afraid of shifting forward because if he fell he wasn't sure he would be able to push himself back up to the wall. He shuffled slowly towards the other end of the wall and when He reached the other corner it was the same. It was some sort of crude fence cutting the room in half. He couldn't imagine what it was for. It was like a cage.

He could hear his heartbeat, it was thunderous in the empty space. It beat: boom boom crash, boom boom crash. He tried to keep breathing smooth and steady breathes but it wasn't really working. His chest was tight and every breath was a short struggle, a quick inhale and a quicker exhale. He was trapped and he didn't know where he was. He couldn't hear anything, or see anything. All he could do was feel a strange wall and shift around. His heart was beating faster and louder. He tried to think, to logic himself out of the situation, but he couldn't. He could only think "I'm Trapped." with the occasional "Jesus Christ, Oh Fuck," in between.

Oliver had dozed off at some point as his raw panic gave way to exhaustion. He groggily opened his eyes again, a moot action, and rolled his neck. It cracked and the sound was severe and abrupt. He felt like a puppet that had put back in his box in all the wrong ways. He tried to stretch, but he had very limited mobility.

He decided with great resolve, that he would not freak out again. Instead, he would focus his energy on trying to remember how he had gotten here in the first place. He had been in his apartment, getting something from the fridge, when Philip had come in. He'd immediately started rambling off about threesomes and safety. He remembers the way his voice shook and the very low quality of the lies he was trying to tell. He remembered dropping the milk, and some of it splashing on his shoes.

Man, he really liked those shoes. For some reason, that thought was incredibly hilarious and sent bubbles up his throat. Manic laughter erupted out of him, muffled by his gag, and his eyes teared up. His shoes. Oh my god, he was kidnapped and tied up and mentally lamenting his stained shoes. He would never call Connor vain again.

Eventually, the laughter subsided and he was left feeling slightly unstable and oddly determined. He just had to follow his memories and he'd figure this mess out. So, after that the milk and the breathy lies and the begging, Philip had leaned in a bit and said, "I don't want to kill you."

Then. Then Philip had. Well, what happened right after that was fuzzier. He remembers a smile, well more of a grimace, and movement. He remembers his shirt being tugged and a hand reaching around his throat. He'd shaken the hand off, but it lunged again and then he remembers a smell, astringent and bitter. And then he remembers absolutely nothing.

So he had been drugged. Maybe chloroform? That's what they used in all the cop shows, but he didn't know how it smelled, so maybe something else. It wasn't particularly important, though. What else could he conclude? Philip was probably using him as leverage, like a trading piece. If he had wanted to kill Oliver out of malice he would have already done it. If he wanted to torture him for information then he was really taking his time. Clearly he was trapped as an incentive for Connor, or perhaps Annalise, to agree to something, to get him back. Great.

Time was weird. Without the cues of daylight or communication, it felt imaginary. Time didn't really pass at all and everything just was. He was asleep or he was awake. He was thinking or mumbling into his gag or he was silent. He was scared shitless or eerily calm. It ebbed and flowed. The only constant was his mounting hunger. He had not eaten since lunchtime on the day he was taken and it had been a significant but undetermined period of time since then. It moved from mild irritation to an intermittent series of intense pangs. That faded too. Then it became truly constant, a singular hollow feeling, a deep reverberating emptiness.

He waits for someone to come in and give him water or food. He imagines it being slide under a door like in prison and sometimes he tries to feel around for some. When it doesn't come he begins to wonder if he is being murdered by starvation.

He knows that only a few things are keeping him sane. The most tangible is the wall beneath his fingers. It reminds him that he is somewhere. There's the faint scent of mildew and dust. His heart beating, boom boom crash, boom boom crash.

The rest is thoughts and memories. He spends his time playing association games and thinking about his life. Sometimes he plays letter games, where he has to name countries that start with every letter of the alphabet, or pick a starting word and then think of something else that starts with the ending letter of that word. He once spends what feels like an entire hour trying to think of a vegetable that starts with N, when he finally thinks of Nappa Cabbage he cries. Okay, so he's losing it a bit. It's something to do at least.

Other times he tries to focus on positive memories. He thinks a lot about his mother. She was a short and stocky woman, with shocking red hair and chestnut eyes. He looked literally nothing like her except in the very edges of his face, the way his cheekbones cut and the set of his jaw. He remembered the way to stroke his hair while she read him bedtime stories. His favorite had been Winnie the Pooh and the bees, and he'd make her read it at least two times every night until he was four. Winnie would run after balloons and into hives and over hills and into ditches. "What a silly bear" his mom would say and tickle his stomach. "Just like my silly little bear" she'd say as he giggled. Then she'd kiss him on the top of the head tuck him into bed.

Sometimes if he thought about it long enough he felt like it had just happened, like he was in his dark bed after a bedtime story and would wake up in the morning.

He thought a lot about Connor. Connor had such expressive eyes. When he was happy they light up like Christmas trees. When he was horny the light up in a different way, a glowy feral brightness. When he was angry they tightened and hardened, like two drawn on dots. When he was worried they dulled and skittered. When he was scared they were so wide, so very wide, and they darted. The worst was panic. He'd only seen it once, that night when he'd come over, sweaty and shaking and panting and muttering. His eyes had been heavy-lidded and his pupils danced, dilating and narrowed like they were breathing with him. gasping with him. When he thought about that night he felt frozen.

He also thought about the time they spent being sorta friends sorta almost boyfriends. He remembered how that idiot had watched him watching an entire series of Thorn Birds. He thought about that stupid floppy hat gift and how it warmed the tips of his ears in just the right ways. If he got out of here he would wear that hat everywhere for a week. He'd get to see Connor's eyes again and he'd make him laugh so he could see them sparkle.

He thought about how warm Connor's hands were, on his hips, or cradling his head or on his chest. He thought about the weight of Connor's head against his shoulder when they watched TV together. He thought about the kiss that he'd given Connor when he couldn't wait any longer. He'd been so overwhelmed by Connor's voice and his smile and him that he couldn't stop himself from rushing over and kissing him, dishwasher soap still on his fingers. He thought about when they finally, finally got to have sex after all the waiting. He thought about Connor's eyes at the brink of an orgasm and his cherry red lips and the flush on his neck. He thought about Connor's thought about the first time Connor had called him Ollie, and how it made him feel all bubbly.

He thought about the nights Connor slept curled in on himself a little too tightly when he shook and his breaths came sharp and fast. He thought about how he would sometimes mumble 'no, no, no, nooo' under his breath and Oliver would have to hug him to his chest and whisper in his ear. He thought about the time Connor had leaned in close and told him that he could go to jail, and that Oliver was everything and that he loved him.

Sometimes he had to force himself to stop thinking because he just didn't have the energy to cry. Sometimes he shook with emotion and breathe barely escaped his lips and it was all he could do.

He wanted water

Cool Cold Water down his throat

Water on his face to clear the grime and dust

Water on his wrists to soothe the pain of raw skin

He heard creaking. Someone was coming. It stirred him. Not much, but a little. He strained his eyes in the darkness, but nothing changed. Maybe he hadn't heard it. Maybe it hadn't happened. It was getting harder to tell when he was awake or asleep. His dreams and memories bleed into each other. The only thing reassuring him was the color of the darkness. When his eyes were open the darkness was a deep grayish purple but when he closed his eyes it was the midnight black.

He also hurt more when he was awake. He felt his sides throb and his neck ache. He felt t the slick pain of raw skin and popped blisters on his wrists and the little bumps on his ankles that he wanted so badly to scratch. He felt his throat burn with desire to drink.

He heard another creak. For sure this time. It sounded like footsteps on an old staircase, the deep groan of wood and the thump of contact. He heard something like a sliding sound and then click. There was a thin beam of light, oh my god it was bright, and a person.

"Phlp" He tried to say Philip but his it came out a dry croak of a word. Thank god he'd come back. He was carrying an enormous water tube and there was a long straw coming out. It looked like a giant version of that thing they put in hamster cages so the animal could drink whenever.

"Hi, Oliver. Sorry, I took so long with the water. I had some things to take care of. I'll bring you some food soon too. I'm gonna leave this near you and I'm gonna take off your gag. If you scream I'm not going to let you drink."

Oliver nodded. Philip walked closer, up to the primitive wire fence, and lowered the mammoth container over it. With outstretched arms, he untied the gag and let it fall on Oliver's shoulders. Oliver took a breath through his mouth because he could. Then Philip pushed the container over and the straw was in reach. He was desperately thirsty and he as soon as the straw was in his mouth gulped down the water.

It was so unspeakably wonderful to feel the water slide down his throat. Then Philip wretched the straw back out of his mouth, just as he was beginning to feel better, to feel human.

"Can I leave this here and trust you not to scream? I'll leave a recorder on and if I hear one peep louder than speaking voice, I'll come back and let you dehydrate."

Oliver nodded furiously. He needed the water. Please god, let him leave it. He wouldn't even talk, not a sound.

"Okay then. I'm trusting you. Tomorrow I'll bring a similar canister filled with a substance called 'soylent' which has all of the basic nutrients necessary to live. I don't want you to die Oliver. I don't even want to do this. But I have to."

He leaned over the wire and put his lips extremely close to Oliver's ear. Oliver could feel the heat of his breath.

"Oliver, You are just so innocent. So fresh and clean. I just had to taint you." He moved closer and bit the lobe of Oliver's ear. Oliver bit back a yelp and tried to stop the flurry of tears. He had to show less weakness.

" Now, you'll be a little bit broken. That's good. We're all a little bit broken inside. It's better this way. Connor will eventually figure out what I need from him and then you'll go back to him. You'll both be equally broken. Isn't that sweet." Philip said everything in a smooth dead voice.

He was still so close to Oliver and his breath was hot and gross. He closed his eyes tight and waited. He could feel Philip's breath moving from his ear to his cheek and down his jaw. Philip bit him again and he pulled back with his teeth, and clenched them and then he twisted his face roughly. The skin broke and bleed.

"Goodbye." Philip said and he left the room and took the light with him. Oliver trembled, blood dripping down his neck, sweat dripping down his back and tears dripping down his cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

Connor had never lived like this. He had never felt this weird combination of anger and clarity. The rage and pain of not knowing were constantly vibrating under his skin, tearing him to shreds, but also guiding him. He knew, so surely, so absolutely, like knowing that he had to breathe, that he could not fall apart. The stakes were too high. He was like a tornado, holding on to all the pieces of himself, a whirling storm of emotion condensed to a single purpose: destruction.

He wanted to find Oliver, and he would burn the world down to do it. But he refused to be overtaken by fear. He had to channel it because it would be all too easy to sit back and wallow in the infinite possibilities. He was terrified down to the marrow of his bones that Oliver was dead. But if he was alive- and he must be, he must - then Connor would be wasting precious energy worrying. So much of his life had been unnecessary fretting, and now he couldn't. He had to be as streamlined as a person could be if he had a single chance in hell of getting Oliver back.

He'd shoved the last dredges of panic deep inside himself that night when Philip never showed. He had gone back up to his apartment at around 5:00 A.M. and sat down on the couch with a bright blue 'to do' notepad his mom had gotten him. The absurdity of the polka dots beneath his pen, in contrast to the written words, was almost too much, and if he had not been so determined, he would have gone to pieces, would've shaken with that mad laughter he knew too well. Instead, he let the pen guide his hands and kept every crazy detail under tight watch and giving them no power over his focus.

To Do

Strangle Philip with a length of power cord

Stakeout the grocery store where Philip works

Go to the store and grill co-workers for info

Confront Philip while holding a very long, very sharp, very very deadly knife

Search all of Oliver's stuff for clues/ideas

Double check the laptop for info

Figure out where Philip lives and then wait for him in his room in order to violently murder him

After crossing out the items that would result in the death of Philip over the return of Oliver, he set to work. He did a quick check for his keys, wallet, phone, and then shrugged on a jacket, then he was off. He walked briskly, face tucked into his collar to defend against the sharp morning air. It woke him up, reddened his cheeks and blew his aches deeper into his bones.

Philip worked at a Quickie Mart, about a fifteen or twenty minutes walk away. He pulled out his phone and looked through his contacts. Could someone help him? Waitlist had been at the ready with paranoid theories about Rebecca, so he could probably come up with some possibilities. He felt a pang in his chest when he realized that Waitlist had been going through something similar but with even less of an idea where to look. He hadn't thought of it that way. In his mind, Rebecca just a rash liar, ready to throw them all under the bus. But Rebecca was Wes' Oliver. Fuck.

His finger hovered the screen, but what could he say? What could he ask? He slipped his phone back into his pocket. Maybe later, when he found the right words. He turned left down a wide boulevard. After his next right, he'd be walking a straight shot to the store. He picked up his pace, finalizing a plan of action in his mind. He'll walk in looking at his phone, head down but not in a way that made him look like he didn't want to be seen. He'd go straight to the frozen food aisle and studiously examine the nutritional label of a Lean Cuisine, and from there he'd try to scout the place out.

Alright. There it was. The Quickie Mart, its small structure overwhelmed by peeling gray paint and a plethora of graffiti penises. His game plan was immediately ruined. He realized in retrospect, having never gone to this particular Quickie Mart, that he ought to have considered that it might have a different layout to the one closer to his place. This one had very bright lights and wide open aisles as opposed to the dimly lit and cramped version on 5th street. The frozen section wasn't even an aisle it was a large corner, and if he stood there he'd really only have a clear view of the various microwavable pizzas.

Clearly he was overthinking this. He grabbed a basket and decided to just do a shopping - there wasn't any milk in the house, after all. He strolled down the cookie aisle and let his gaze wander lightly over the shelves. He stretched his neck in the direction of the register and then around the other way. No Phillip in sight. There were three registers, each one manned by an exasperated teenager. Man, he was really hoping for an old lady; they always liked him.

He turned down the next aisle, grabbed a jug of two percent and a couple yogurts; he made his fingers stay steady, even though they threatened to shake with every movement. He headed toward the meat counter. There was a middle-aged man at there and he looked very tired, his gaze hard, his cheeks were hollow, and his mouth was in a loose little gape. He looked just unhappy enough to make sly comments yet, and just engaged enough for them to be relevant. Connor approached and asked if there were any specials.

"What'd ya mean specials. This ain't a restaurant, we always got the same thing: Meat. " He made a sweeping gesture toward the option. Connor nodded in response and took a step back to look through the glass.

"Can I get a half pound of ground turkey? My friend Philip works here and he said that I might be able to discount if I said that I knew him." The man moved toward the turkey with waxy paper in one hand. He looked up as he packaged the meat.

"Phil unloaded trucks and stacks crates. He didn't have any say about meat prices, even when he did work here. That's my job." He slapped a price sticker on the package and held it over the counter. "And I sell things at their price."

"Thanks. Sorry, did you say Phil quit?"

"Nope. Pretty sure he was fired. Dunno why."

So, Philip spent his days heaving heavy crates up and down, and his lanky figure surely didn't communicate that. Connor imagined his arms, thin but lined with wiry muscles, jumping out at Oliver, grabbing him, heaving him into a trunk like a shipment of apples. Connor's stomach inverted, twisting and turning like a drunk ballerina, and he felt the nausea rise, climbing up his throat. Philip had gotten fired so Connor couldn't wait around at here and try to follow him.

He wanted to drop everything and just scream Oliver's name into the streets. Instead, he proceeded to the nearest register; waited on line, forked over a few bills and trudged back to the apartment in a daze.

Oliver missed sunshine. He missed seeing the way it moved and flickered, the way it lit the whole world. Everyday people have the privilege of getting up and seeing the sun, the miracle of life, the bringer of warmth light, and sustenance, and just enjoy it without a thought to how unbelievably incredible it is.

He missed being clean, not because of smell, he was used to the rank smell by now, but because he missed the feeling of freshness. His skin was heavy with sweat, dust and dirt, a layer of grime that made him squirm. He discovered a self-loathing born of not being able to handle his skin. He wanted to rip it off, rip the dirt off and the pain. He was afraid that the zip tie burns would get infected, but he couldn't do anything about it. All he could do was sip water or sip from the 'food' jug Philip had brought some time (hours? days?) later. It was a slimy, gritty substance that tasted like a chalkboard-dust and Elmer's-glue smoothie. It was disgusting but it filled the hollow ache of hunger that he had come to know. The hunger had been a constant, a terrible one, but one nonetheless and he wondered whether he was better off with or without it. It was a crazy thought, but the hunger had been a sort of clarity. Here, he was alone with his mind and the mental turmoil of fear, anger and confusion. The physical pain was unpleasant, but it was in some ways it was a preferable distraction to the endless swarm of thoughts.

At home, Connor had unloaded his groceries with the type of calm reserved for serial killers and those so fraught with emotion that they can not show any. He sat down on the living room couch and closed his eyes. It had been a single day, to the hour since Oliver went missing. He picked up his little notepad and looked at his options, crossing out the ones related to the grocery store and strongly reconsidering the ones. He could look through Oliver's stuff. But how would that help him? It wasn't like Oliver was involved in his own kidnapping.

He decided to start by combing through Oliver's laptop again. He pulled up the web page with Philip's profile and read it a few times. It was vague and littered with references to the size of his penis. Connor was not amused. Then he did a simple search to see if Oliver had any documents that had info on Philip; he had obviously been researching him to find the dude for dude page in the first place. None of the words he put in were getting hits. He started manually skimming through files. Most of them were dense computer jargony work notes with a few scheduling timetables peppered in the mix. He was about to close the laptop and move on when he clicked on a folder named ' .buy', which was not as the title suggest a list of songs. It contained several documents with information that Oliver had found for several of Connor's previous cases.

He started scrolling down to see more recent additions to the folder and he found the one with the details of Philip's adoption. He knew all of that already, though, Oliver had brought that to his attention right away. He clicked the next document in the folder, hope welling in his heart at the same time as dread pulled it apart.

Suspect Data

D4d page - /PhilYouUp26

Job History

Currently works at Quickie Mart

No Prior work history on record

Financials

Checking Account #0003434293860

Balance $10.68

History over last 3 months

Deposited $5,500 three weeks ago

Withdrew $4,270 last week, followed by $1,200 on Tuesday

Small Debit Card Withdrawals

Savings Account

Balance $12,102.56

No Deposits or Withdrawals in the last six months

Credit Cards

None unless under as of yet unknown alias

Movements

Pays for a SEPTA card on a monthly basis for over two years

Most frequent usage is for a four-stop trip on the Broad Street Line which ends two blocks from the Quickie Mart

Taxi Usage

Paid in cash or not taken

No records of car purchase, gas receipts or any other indication of owning a vehicle

Housing

Rent Stabilized Apartment, Payments of $435 made monthly

Building is owned by W. Mahoney, one of three buildings in a complex on N. Broad Street

Unclear which of the three buildings he resides in because they share one address split into numbered sections and alphabetical floor levels.

Lives in Section 12, Level B

Although the building is very old and in relative disrepair the security incongruously high, around the clock surveillance and guards.

This was it. Oliver had done all of the hard work for him, all he had to do figure out which building matched Philip's apartment location, weasel his way through some security and then he would. Well, he would be closer to Philip and that would lead to Oliver in one way or another.

Oliver decided not to eat again until he was so hungry that it rang through his entire being, until animal instinct forced him to seek sustenance. Until then he would watch as the hunger grew, burning inside him like a lamp, illuminating the darkness of solitude.


End file.
